[ she doesn't answer, her expression dark with anger. she is mad - she's so fucking furious, she wants to tear this fucking camp up by roots because she's so tired of this, of hurting. of watching people die, of waking up on fridays paralyzed.
he's defensive, and she doesn't let him recover, as much as she can. she throws herself forward and swings, a one-two-three punch. it's instinct, and the last punch is deliberate, less of a haymaker and more of a stunning strike. she seems to almost expect it to do more than it does.
if it lands, anyway. he's quick. ]
i give us both permission to be lazy as shit with this fight whenever we want i trust us
[While Beau is aggressive and brutally offensive, Guy's motions are highly evasive, used to a fighting style without the need for a shield, meant to land quick hits in a moment of weakness and to reroute the enemy's motions otherwise.
He is also, unfortunately, more used to fighting with his weapon in hand than with his fists. But he's not about to pull live steel right now. He'd take the disadvantage, and they'd deal with it later.
The first hit grazes, the second misses entirely. But he misreads the motions of her third, which hits him hard up the side of the face, whipping him to the side. It's going to leave a nasty mark, that much is for sure.
Like clockwork, his feet catch under him just as he's spitting the taste of blood to the ground, and he's darting forward in an arch, a feigned motion to try and get her to throw a punch wild while he jerks a knee up into her ribs.]
[ blink and you miss it, but there's a satisfied look on her face when she sees blood.
she falls for the fake-out, though - she throws a punch and he knees her in the ribs and she grunts, winded, stumbling to the side. she's going to have a nice bruise there tomorrow, she thinks. good, she thinks. maybe she'll try to earn more, she thinks.
and she does. she fights hard - she fights until she's exhausted, until he gets one last hit in and she stumbles backwards, nearly falling on her ass. she wipes her mouth, spits blood off to the side, and then leans back and away. hits a tree, and breathes heavily.
[The second the combat is over, he gives her a wide berth, limbs shaking as he sinks to the ground a couple yards away and tries to catch his breath. Everything hurts, the wound on his face already blossoming red under the skin, the adrenaline of the fight wearing down and keeping him from breaking the distance any longer. But she fought urgently, and that much gave them at least a little normalcy without his damn phobia messing things up.
His mouth still tastes of blood, but he can tell his teeth are all still intact - a small blessing. He'll cough against the back of his arm, wiping his sweat-soaked bangs off his face.]
...Any better? Or are we going to end up as two more bodies tomorrow just because we're angry?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he's defensive, and she doesn't let him recover, as much as she can. she throws herself forward and swings, a one-two-three punch. it's instinct, and the last punch is deliberate, less of a haymaker and more of a stunning strike. she seems to almost expect it to do more than it does.
if it lands, anyway. he's quick. ]
i give us both permission to be lazy as shit with this fight whenever we want i trust us
He is also, unfortunately, more used to fighting with his weapon in hand than with his fists. But he's not about to pull live steel right now. He'd take the disadvantage, and they'd deal with it later.
The first hit grazes, the second misses entirely. But he misreads the motions of her third, which hits him hard up the side of the face, whipping him to the side. It's going to leave a nasty mark, that much is for sure.
Like clockwork, his feet catch under him just as he's spitting the taste of blood to the ground, and he's darting forward in an arch, a feigned motion to try and get her to throw a punch wild while he jerks a knee up into her ribs.]
me: thank god bc fights suck
she falls for the fake-out, though - she throws a punch and he knees her in the ribs and she grunts, winded, stumbling to the side. she's going to have a nice bruise there tomorrow, she thinks. good, she thinks. maybe she'll try to earn more, she thinks.
and she does. she fights hard - she fights until she's exhausted, until he gets one last hit in and she stumbles backwards, nearly falling on her ass. she wipes her mouth, spits blood off to the side, and then leans back and away. hits a tree, and breathes heavily.
done, she's done. done for now. ]
no subject
His mouth still tastes of blood, but he can tell his teeth are all still intact - a small blessing. He'll cough against the back of his arm, wiping his sweat-soaked bangs off his face.]
...Any better? Or are we going to end up as two more bodies tomorrow just because we're angry?